Page 92 of Mila: The Godfather

“How about you change first, love?” Frowning, I look down at what I’m wearing. An oversized Guns and Roses shirt with mid-thigh socks and slippers. “You look adorable, but how about we don’t provoke the big man? I’m already hanging on by a thin line.”

“Provoke?” I am dumbfounded, not understanding what he means by provoking Riagan.

“The psycho will have my balls if he finds out I’ve now seen you without a top and pants. You did see his reaction back at the beach, right? The motherfucker almost drowned me at sea.” He laughs as if he enjoyed being almost drowned by Riagan.

Looking down at what I’m wearing, my brows pull low.

“Is it not proper attire?” I ask him, feeling confused. “I’ve seen girls wearing this type of shirt without pants on social media and it seems to be a thing.”

Cianne laughs, but it’s not a cruel laugh. He’s not mocking me. “I guess they do, but the boss is—”

“What?”

“Territorial as fuck. I wouldn’t be surprised if he peed on you next.” He laughs.

Scrunching up my nose. “I would rather not. Do you know how many bacteria live in urine?”

Cianne raises his hand, stopping me from continuing. “Ah, no offense, but I don’t care to share facts about body fluids.” He deadpans. “It’s gross, sweetness.”

I won’t be surprised if he pees on you next.

Shivers run through my spine just thinking about it. “Do you really think Riagan will pee on me?” Is that something men do? Is it part of their organization? I need to research this once I have access to the web.

“Mila…” I spaced out again. “I was joking.” Cianne clarifies.

Oh… I guess that makes sense.

“I’m sorry. I do not understand most jokes or sarcasm at all.” I explain.

“No worries.” His smile is mischievous. “Stick with me, kid, and we’ll remedy that real fucking quick.”

I don’t really think so.

I’ve tried for years but failed to understand humor like most people do. Humor, specifically jokes, involves cognitive capacities that are often challenging for me.

“Cianne.” I look up at his face and find him already looking at me.

“Yes, mislean?” he replies.

I play with the brim of my hat while asking. “What would be the proper attire?” It’s barely a whisper.

Making eye contact for a slight second, I notice his eyes turn soft, just like Riagan’s do at times.

“Now that I can help you with.” He claps his big hands and moves toward the walk-in closet, stepping inside. I stand there, and watch him take clothes out of the racks and throw them on the bed.

“You’re making a mess.” I blurt out, trying not to sound rude. He doesn’t seem to hear me and keeps throwing more clothes on the bed. There’s a big pile. A big messy one.

So as the muscle-tattooed criminal roams through my closet, trying to find me something to wear, I focus on fixing the mess. By arranging the clothes, he chose neat piles organized by color and fabric. All the while, I can’t ignore the feeling in my chest that’s making my heart race faster at just the thought of spending more time with Riagan.

I’m already in big trouble.

A huge one.

One that won’t be so easy to get out of.

I don’t even know if I want to.

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